


The Countdown

by abbichicken (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Narcissism, One-Shot, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cato looks forward to the Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Countdown

He wonders if, in other districts, they dream of each other. Of each other clean, clothed, at that. Soft and uninjured. What the boys who shake and cry when the arena is revealed have thought of during these long nights of waiting, the nights between the Reaping and the start of the Games themselves. 

He wonders what it's like to be like them. Weak. Frightened of blood, shocked by strength. What it's like to rely on things as circumstantial as wit and knowledge, neither of which can be seen nor paraded, both of which can be cut down in a moment with a sword.

He wonders what it's like to feel fear, rather than thrill, at the thought of the Games' beginning. Of how the minds of those who run from, rather than into, the Cornucopia work.

In the thin reflection of the windows that line his room, Cato stretches this way and that, flexes limbs and torso. He turns, admires himself, here, above everything, above the thousands of insipid, passive Capitol insects, down there. They haven't even the chance of doing what he's about to do. They might live in this city, but they can't ever rise above it. They can't _win_. They'll never know the right to stand proud above everyone else and say not that you survived the Games, but that you _won_ them. That's what he's here to do. Win. Not cheat and hide and thieve. Not shoot the others in the back, or by cover of night. He'll glory in each kill - make it good for the cameras; show the skills he's carved into his muscles and his mind, the speed and the power that have made him the kind of Tribute that will stick in the minds of every viewer, that will have them all wishing they were like him, with him, that they had a shred of his bravery. To start with, they'll think that. And then the things he'll do, then he'll start to frighten some, and excite others. He'll be the Tribute that they're speaking of at the 100th Games. He'll be the image of the Games themselves. Their very definition. His mind races down a single track of infinite excellence, created in ignorance, brutality and prowess.

He stops wondering about the others, captivated only by himself. He's already won. All he has to do is show that to the others. To the slavering, watching, waiting Panem.

His gold-pale skin is moon-coloured on the Cato that looks back at him from the heavy glass. His hair is streaked white by the shine of the darkness, the reflection of the celebrations outside. He turns this way and that: watches sinews pull tight and lean, excites himself at the sight of his shoulders broadening, curved and capable, imagines shaping his perfected figure for the countdown, statuesque, poised and ready to become himself.

Clove is returned to the rooms by their team, breaking his self-adoration for but a second. A second in which he glances at her, and she at him, and he sees an envy in her eyes, or desire, either of those, and as far as he is concerned, in her eyes is where such feelings can stay. They may need to ally in the name of the Game, to play District teammates, but he is already looking forward to executing her at the best moment, the moment at which all eyes are on him, as he performs the most brutal and brave killing of all, the one which only Districts 1 and 2 will value as highly as they ought, which might even shock his own people into a state of awe that they haven't known in years. Hers will be the kill that the other Districts will hide their eyes from: they'll see how true, how strong he is, and quail before their screens. 

And when he is victorious, he'll watch his successes nightly from his mansion, and allow himself all the satisfaction he's witholding right now. By then he'll have the feel of their screams dying in their throats beneath his fingertips, the tack of their blood on his skin, the crack of their bones when they fall...those most sensual rewards to enhance every moment of the rest of his life. 

In the meantime, he bites the inside of his mouth bloody, focusing on breathing and swallowing, on pushing every inch of arousal and every excruciatingly hard beat of his heart to improve these last hours of his life as potential. 

Waiting is such a thrill. 

Imagine what winning will feel like.


End file.
